


The Ocean Between

by morningless



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Angst, Cats, Fluff, M/M, Quidditch, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-15 10:24:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9230744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morningless/pseuds/morningless
Summary: The one where they meet at Hogwarts.





	1. Chapter 1

They are fifteen when they meet.

The Americans have just entered the war, and they've brought their wizards with them too, secrecy be damned. Newt is secretly impressed with the tales of bold American wizards and witches that trickle back to him through Theseus, but he doesn't think much of this burgeoning friendship between their countries until Headmaster Black announces at breakfast one day that Hogwarts is going to host Ilvermorny students for the year.

Newt doesn't think the Great Hall could possibly get any louder, but then the day comes when the Ilvermorny students arrive. The lot of them are, on a whole, rather ordinary looking, not altogether that different from Hogwarts students, aside from two: Seraphina Picquery, a Black girl, the first ever to grace Hogwarts' halls - and Percival Graves.

Percival is _gorgeous_ , as a fifth year near Newt puts it, the girls gushing right away over this newcomer with his American bad-boy good looks. He's darkly handsome, with his slicked black hair and full, pouty lips, and he moves with confidence to be Sorted. 

 _Gryffindor_ , Newt thinks, but the Sorting Hat takes a long while to decide. Perhaps he has Slytherin tendencies to him, or is shrewd enough for Ravenclaw. Certainly nothing about him seems like a Hufflepuff. But while he's waiting, Percival's eyes roam over the Great Hall, landing finally on Newt, who startles, wondering if there's something on his face. The corner of his lip does a little twitch, one Newt can't identify, and then the Hat shouts, "GRYFFINDOR!"

The twitch becomes a full smirk, and Percival makes his way to the roaring Gryffindors. He doesn't look at Newt again. The Hufflepuffs get the fewest of the Ilvermorny students, and Theseus, when Newt writes about this, suggests that it is because it takes a certain kind of bravery or drive to volunteer to spend their year at another school. Newt is offended by this idea, but Theseus has always been an overly proud Gryffindor, and there's no arguing with him. Still, he chews on the end of his quill while he's studying in the library, thinking about what to write back.

"Are you working on the Potions essay?" Someone inquires, voice smooth and deep, and Newt jumps, surprised, and looks up into dark, solemn eyes. "My apologies, I didn't mean to frighten you. I'm Percival Graves - Ilvermorny transfer student. I believe we're in Potions together?"

Newt can hardly believe that Percival would have noticed him in the class, what with so many Hufflepuff and Gryffindor girls fawning over him, but he nods. That twitch is back on Percival's lips. He doesn't know what it means, just that up close, he can see that Percival's eyes are a much warmer brown than he thought. He looks away as soon as the thought's registered, cheeks flushing red with embarrassment.

"Newt Scamander," he mumbles in return, and pushes the Ancient Potions book towards him, even though the essay is the only thing he has to do left. "Sorry - you can have the book."

To his surprise, Percival sits across from him instead, pulling out his own quill and parchment.

"Actually," He says, and a half-smile quirks on his lips. "I must be honest with you. I was rather hoping you could help me. You're handy at Potions, aren't you?"

Newt looks at Percival again, unable to believe his ears. He's top in his year at Potions, but he never would have imagined that Percival Graves would have noticed. He didn't think anyone noticed, really, aside from Bertha Vane in Ravenclaw who was always trying to displace him.

"I - I suppose, yes, I could," he says, and Percival lights up. He nudges his chair over, and huddles close to Newt as he explains how to convert between the American and British measuring systems, and then how powdered Asphodel strengthens the Draught of Living Death. He's so intense in his teaching that he doesn't realize how close he is to Percival until he turns to check if the American is following him and ends up almost touching noses with him.

"Oh," he says, and startles back, but Percival just continues, seemingly unbothered. Casually, he says,

"I'd heard you were too obsessed with beasts to focus much on anything else, but that's not true, is it?" 

Newt freezes up. Things never go well when his love for magical creatures gets brought up, and his heart thumps in his chest anxiously at what Percival might say next. He keeps his gaze fixed very tightly on his parchment, though his hand doesn't move and his hair has fallen in his eyes by now.

Something white enters his vision, and he startles, looking up. Percival is reaching across the table, his long fingers holding a Sugar Quill by the tip, barely brushing Newt's lips with it. He's smiling gently now, his eyes dancing, more genuine, and Newt feels his chest suddenly get tight. He flicks his eyes away, feeling guilty without knowing why.

"Thanks again for the help," Percival says.

He doesn't say anything else, not about creatures or potions, and Newt's heart settles. He's not a big fan of sweets, but there's something about the American he can't say no to. So he takes the quill gingerly, and finds the sugary taste of it on his lips not unpleasant. Not with Percival, mirroring him with another Sugar Quill hanging from his mouth, brow furrowed as he concentrates on his essay.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Percival takes the seat next to Newt at breakfast. 

"I haven't really acquired a taste for pumpkin juice yet," he says offhandedly as he piles sausages onto his plate. Two or three make it onto Newt's plate, and he squints at Percival, confused. Across the Great Hall, Leta is glaring daggers at him, though he has no idea why. She was one of the few female students who hadn't taken to following Percival around. 

Percival taps his mug with his wand and it fills with coffee, which he sips and then sighs, eyes closed. Then he notices the look on Newt's face. 

"You're too skinny," He says, as if that's an explanation. "You should eat more. We're still growing, you know."

"Pardon," Newt says apologetically. "But I don't eat meat."

"You what?" Percival demands, and Newt bites his lip. The usual response. Voluntarily not eating meat is unheard of in Hogwarts' circles, and he's found it easier to not try to explain why he does it. "Okay. Well. Are eggs alright?"

Newt blinks at the casual response, and Percival takes it as a yes, levitating a pile of eggs onto Newt's plate to cover the sausages. He waves his wand and the pile is covered with stripes of red sauce.

"Thank you," He says a little dumbfoundedly, and takes a bite. The red sauce is tangy and somewhat spicy, making the usually plain eggs more enjoyable. "Erm. Might I ask why you're here?"

Percival frowns. "Am I not allowed to sit at another house's table? No one's said anything."

"Oh, no, it's alright," Newt says hastily. "It's just, ah. You're very popular. With the Gryffindors. And the girls. So I thought -"

Percival rolls his eyes, frown gone, and Newt relaxes.

"Don't tell me you think I _like_ all this attention," he says. "I just want to be in peace for once. Everywhere I go, it's 'Oh, say something in that accent of yours' or 'Do you do this differently in America?'" His accent gets a little rougher as he talks.

"I sort of understand, I think," He's surprised when the words leave his mouth, because Newt doesn't understand being too popular. But he does understand wanting to be left alone. "There are lots of good places to go in Hogwarts, if you want to be alone."

"Really?" Percival raises an eyebrow. "Have any you might want to share?"

And for a moment, Newt thinks about telling him about the Herbology greenhouses, about introducing him to the Bowtruckles. Maybe, he thinks, maybe he'd understand, see what Newt sees.

Just as he opens his mouth, Margaret Bone, a Sixth Year Prefect, barges in.

"Oh, Percival! Are you here to learn more about Hufflepuffs? I'm a Prefect, you know," And she juts out her not-unimpressive bosom, where the badge gleams. "I'd be happy to tell you about the history of our house."

Percival, looking bewildered, politely says, "Okay?", and that's the end of that. Newt scoots away from the conversation that ensues only to find Leta - the only person before Percival to cross House boundaries to sit with him - waiting for him. She smiles at him, green eyes glittering underneath her dark hair.

"You should be careful," she says sweetly. "Or his fan club will have your head."

Without even giving him a chance to respond, she steals a sausage from his plate and sweeps away. Newt stares after her, a little open-mouthed, and then blushes furiously at her words. No one would think _that_ , would they?

Still, he looks around a little worriedly as he finishes his breakfast.

In Potions that day, Percival flashes him a small smile as they turn in their essays, but otherwise doesn't do anything else to acknowledge him. In the days following, it almost seems like they encounter each other randomly multiple times a day. They bump into each other between classes, or head to the Great Hall at the same time for dinner, or come across each other in the library. Percival's taken to sitting in the spot they worked on Potions in, and though Newt somewhat misses his favorite study spot, he just nods at him and keeps going.

He doesn't quite understand the American. Every time they come across each other, Percival is always the first to say something, but though he seems warm and friendly, something about his expression is always forced. Newt wants to tell him that it's alright, he doesn't have to be friends with everyone at Hogwarts. That's too blunt though, of course. Even he knows that.

One night, he's leaving the Hufflepuff common room when he comes across Seraphina Picquery and Percival in the hallway. They don't notice him, and he quickly rounds back the corner he came. Unfortunately, there's no other way to get out, so he has to wait for them to leave.

"What do you want, Fi." Percival sounds irritated. Newt didn't know he was so familiar with Seraphina, who had been sorted into Slytherin as a sixth-year; he'd hardly seen them interacting before. He wonders if they're going to fight.

"I thought you came to Hogwarts to escape," she replies, and there is a regal firmness to her voice. "Not to play the same damn role all over again."

There's a pause, and then he responds,

"I'm _always_ going to be Percival Graves, Seraphina. I'm never going to have the option to be otherwise."

Seraphina's angrier now, edge in her voice.

"You're _fifteen_ , Percy! You're away from your father, away from all those gossips back at Morny - can't you just relax for once? Stop humoring those girls. Don't try out for the Quidditch team. Just...do what you like, for once."

Percival's answer is measured and quiet.

"Thank you for your input. I'll take your advice into account."

The formality is clearly meant to annoy, and Seraphina stalks off. Newt hears a deep, long sigh next. 

"You can come out now, you know," Percival calls, and Newt jumps. How did - he inches out, embarrassed.

"I'm sorry," he says softly, eyes on the floor, and then he glances up. Percival looks tired, his normally perfectly coiffed hair falling in messy strands around his face. But he also looks - amused. A tired smile tugs at his lips.

"Newt," he says. "A little late to be out, isn't it?"

"I have special permission from Professor Pickett," Newt says hurriedly. "I'm doing research with him."

"Pickett? The Herbology professor?"

"I'm helping him study Bowtruckles," he explains, and then when confusion creases Percival's face, continues, "They're magical creatures that live on trees. I could - I could show you, if you like?"

"Would that be alright?" Percival sounds uncertain, but he does look interested.

"I think so," Newt says, and Percival smiles again, this time with less exhaustion in his face. "Follow me, please."

They move in silence through the castle, and when they exit, the crisp air common to the late fall hits them. Newt inhales, and tastes grass, dust, a faint hint of honey. He hums, pleased, and leads the other boy to Greenhouse 3. Inside, spells keep the atmosphere warmer and slightly more humid, and trees loom overhead, a miniature forest.

"Bowtruckles typically live on trees that produce wand-quality wood. Professor Pickett is studying whether rehoming them to lesser-quality trees might improve the quality of the wood over time." He explains as he scoops his research journal from a drawer and waves Percival through the thicket. "We're looking at ash mostly, because while the tree itself is easy enough to find or cultivate, the volume of wand-quality woods that have been harvested from them has been decreasing in the past few years."

"Fascinating," says Percival, looking up into one of the tallest trees. "But where are the creatures?"

"They're shy around newcomers, unless they think you're a threat. You have to lure them out. Woodlice will work, but they love fairy and Doxy eggs if you can get them." Newt offers the little jar of Doxy eggs, procured from cleaning out an abandoned classroom, to Percival. "Go on. Just a few."

"Just - in my hand?" Percival looks dubious, but opens the jar anyway, tipping the soft black eggs into his palm. Without looking at Newt, he hands the jar back, and approaches the trunk, shoulders squared. "Alright - here we go." He seems to be muttering more to himself than to Newt.

Almost immediately the Bowtruckles come chattering from the tree top, scrambling down the trunk to get to the eggs. Three land on his palm, the first victors, and scoop up as many as they can. One remains after the others leave, choosing to eat his prizes right there.

"Oh," Percival's voice is softer than Newt imagined it could be. "He's so small."

"They're adorable," Newt agrees. "But they can be quite vicious if they think you're attacking their tree, so watch out for those fingers." 

They watch the Bowtruckle eat in silence. When it's finished, rather than rejoin its friends in the tree, it stares up at Percival, curious. Then it starts making its way up his sleeve, and the other boy winces where its fingers dig into the robes.

"It's okay," He says when Newt steps forward. "Doesn't really hurt."

Once on Percival's shoulder, the Bowtruckle gives a pleased chirp and sits there.

"He likes you," Newt observes. "Well, I suppose you are somewhat alike."

Percival raises an eyebrow, head tilting towards the Bowtruckle, which chirps again.

"Not physically," Newt hurriedly clarifies. "But you're both, you know. Displaced from your own homes."

"Is that so?" Percival gives a wan smile and reaches out for the Bowtruckle with one tentative finger. It curls its fingers around the tip and curiously examines the nail. "Would you believe me if I said I felt more at home here than anywhere else?"

There's a certain weight to his words that Newt can't interpret, and while his eyes are on the Bowtruckle, Newt has the feeling that Percival's thoughts are somewhere else.

"Perhaps you could help me with my research," he offers. If he likes the greenhouses so much, it wouldn't hurt to let him help.

"I'd like that, I think."

Percival's smile is wider this time, and for a moment, Newt thinks he would like to look at it for much longer if he could.

 

* * *

 

Now that the initial rehoming period is over, Newt must be in the greenhouse every day after dinner to check on the Bowtruckles. The spells to ascertain wood quality are difficult and time-consuming, but the work is easier on the nights when Percival joins him, voice weaving with his own to cast the spells.

One night he's marking down the results from the third tree when something wrapped in brown paper thumps by his journal. He jumps, then looks up into Percival's amused eyes.

"You skipped dinner again," he says, wry smile on his lips. "You can't be so focused on taking care of the creatures that you forget to take care of _yourself_ , Newt. I got you something you can eat."

Newt unwraps the parchment to find vegetables and egg salad tucked between two slices of rustic bread. A mug of hot tea is set on his desk next, and something warms inside him.

"Thank you," he says softly, and begins eating. To his surprise, Percival pulls out a sandwich for himself as well. His is stacked with cuts of roast beef.

"Seems like I'm slacking as an assistant research assistant," he says when he catches Newt's look. "It's only right I should work as hard as you."

The Percival that joins Newt in the greenhouse is different from the one he sees around the castle. He's more reserved, doesn't smile as much, but when he does, it seems more genuine and warm, or at least it does to Newt. He has a wry sense of humor - one might even call it sarcastic, except there's not an edge to it like the sarcasm that's been directed at Newt previously. And he doesn't like to talk about himself, doesn't venture even the slightest detail unless Newt asks first. It’s a refreshing change from the Gryffindors who’ll barely let you get in a word edgewise, but it also makes Newt curious.

He takes a sip from the mug and says, though he's not sure what possesses him to do it,

"You can't possibly want to do this for the rest of your free time at Hogwarts." 

Percival doesn't seem offended. He just raises his own mug (likely coffee) to his lips instead and quirks an eyebrow at Newt. _Explain_ , it says.

"You like the Bowtruckles," Newt continues. "But you don't love them, or research, so - what's the endgame, here?"

Percival seems to chew on that for a moment, and then he says simply,

"I'm going to be an Auror."

Newt pictures Percival's wand. Ebony, inflexible, excellent for combative spells. It makes sense. And yet. 

"You don't seem too giddy about it," he points out. Percival looks surprised, and then he looks away and chuckles.

"Merlin's beard," He says, more to himself than to Newt. "Seraphina was right."

"Pardon?"

Percival turns back, and his expression is more serious now.

"Do you know about my family?" Newt shakes his head. "My ancestor, Gondolphus Graves, was one of the original twelve wizards and witches in America - like your Sacred Twenty-Eight, I think. My father is the Director of Magical Security for MACUSA. I'm an only child, so...he expects a lot from me. And so does everyone else.

"It's not that I _mind_ becoming an Auror. I think I'm suited for it, and I like the idea of keeping the streets clean. But...I like being here, because no one expects anything from me. No one looks at me and sees someone I'm supposed to be."

Newt tries to find the right words to say, but only comes up with,

"My father's an Auror." Percival blinks at him, but Newt plows on. "My older brother is fighting in the war right now. He'll probably become an Auror too, after it's over." The unheard _If he lives_ lingers between them. "When he was at Hogwarts, Theseus was Head Boy and Quidditch captain, and everyone loved him.”

He hesitates a moment before continuing.

“What I mean to say is...I understand what it's like to live in the shadow of something bigger than you."

Newt's averted his gaze by now, as is his bad habit. When he looks up, Percival looks almost regretful, sad smile on his lips. He's hooked his thumbs through his belt loops in what Newt can recognize as now as a nervous habit.

"I wish I could be as strong as you," he murmurs.

"Me?" No one's ever called Newt _strong_ before.

"Yes, you." Percival's smile is a touch brighter now. "You just go about Hogwarts, doing whatever pleases you, without a care for what others do or say. If I were in your position, I would have tried desperately to be as good as Theseus, or better. And I probably would have been miserable for it."

"Are you miserable now?" asks Newt quietly. He's afraid for the answer.

The expression that spreads across Percival's face next is sincere but also a little wistful. Newt wishes he could read other people as well as he's learned to read him.

"I didn't even realize how miserable I was until I came here," and Newt's not really sure if if _here_ means Hogwarts or something else, "But I'm learning not to be, I think."

"I'm glad to hear that." Newt tells him sincerely, and he manages to meet Percival's eyes when he smiles.

When they return to the castle, Percival continues with Newt past the point where they usually split off to head to their separate dormitories, but doesn't say anything until they reach the hallway. He doesn't enter the kitchens like Newt expects him to, either.

"I was wondering," he finally murmurs before Newt has to awkwardly ask him to leave. "If you'd like to go to Hogsmeade with me this weekend."

"Oh, is it already time for that?" Newt says, startled. At the time of the first Hogsmeade weekend, they hadn't even known each other. "Yes, Leta's been saying she needs to go into town for some potions ingredients - we can walk over together, you haven't met her yet, have you?"

Percival looks a little disgruntled, and Newt hurries to reassure him.

"She's a good sort, for a Slytherin - I know Gryffindors and Slytherins have their rivalry, but -" He blushes at the idea of naming Leta as his only other friend and doesn't say anything.

"That's alright," Percival says stiffly. "I'll see you at breakfast, then. Good night."

The easy camaraderie and understanding that had risen between them in the greenhouse seems lost. Newt feels lost too, as he stares at Percival's retreating back. With a sigh, he knocks the proper sequence on the barrel lid and climbs into the Common Room. The few Hufflepuffs that are still up glance at him, and then past, like he's not even there. He keeps his eyes down and remembers what it's like to be invisible. Before people like Leta and Percival, who looked at him and saw something worth admiring.

 _Strong_. He still remembers the shape of Percival's lips as they formed the word. The image lingers with him as he gets into bed, but he pushes it away as he lets his eyelids close. Percival had said that Newt doesn't care about what others do or say, but he has not seen everything. Newt keeps the ugliest parts of himself hidden, and he'll keep it that way if he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for the warm reception to my vampire Gramander fic! Following up with something a little less goofy and a little longer - I wanted to finish this as a oneshot but my laziness was getting the better of me, so now I'm hoping having active readers will prod me along. Thanks to [raumschiffe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/raumschiffe) for betaing and listening to me ramble :>
> 
> Note: I've fudged the timeline a bit so that World War I takes place during Newt's time at Hogwarts.


	2. Chapter 2

Leta is positively delighted when Newt tells him who'll be joining them on their Hogsmeade trip that weekend, which only furthers his suspicions that she has designs on Percival, never mind her derisive comments about his fan club. The almost devious grin stays on her face through Saturday morning, when she sits next to Percival at breakfast, both of them across from Newt.

"I don't believe we've met," she purrs, offering a manicured hand. "Leta Lestrange."

Percival fixes his usual charming smile on and shakes her hand, though clearly she'd intended for him to kiss it.

"Percival Graves, Ilvermorny exchange student," he says. "Newt's told me about you. Pleased to meet you."

"Oh, has he?" Her eyes light up. "Why, he hasn't said anything about you, but then, he hasn't had much time for me lately. Newtie, how have you not introduced me to _Percy_ until now?"

Newt keeps his eyes fixed on his eggs. 

"Sorry, Leet," he offers softly, and she giggles, wild and girlish. Normally he likes her energy, but today it has him on edge, and he's not sure why. It feels like she's playing a game with him and Percival, but he doesn't know what her intentions are. Well, he can _guess_ , but something about this feels different from Leta and her previous crushes. 

Perhaps she's serious about him, he thinks, and something settles in his stomach, heavy. But how could she be, when she's only just met him? She doesn't know what Percival's real smile looks like, or how he laughs, shocked and delighted, when a Bowtruckle leaps into his hair and musses it.

He tries not to look at them as they finish breakfast and head out for Hogsmeade. Leta is beautiful, with her wild black hair and bright green eyes, and Percival is the most eligible bachelor at Hogwarts right now. They would make a picturesque couple, Newt thinks. Their children would have very defined eyebrows.

He shakes himself out of his thoughts in time to hear Leta in the middle of a litany of questions for Percival. She already knows he's from an old wizarding family, apparently, though he wouldn't put it past her to have thoroughly researched him, the Lestranges being so proud of their blood status. Percival, to his credit, answers all of her questions patiently, and even asks some in return.

Newt has never seen Leta so interested in someone before, not even that one seventh year Gryffindor everyone had fawned over last year, which is why it's a surprise to him when they arrive in Hogsmeade and she's gone with a cheery "I'll see you boys later then, hm?".

He and Percival are standing alone now, and Newt freezes, unsure what to do. There's a new strangeness between them, introduced by Leta, or Hogsmeade, or a combination. He always associates his time with Percival with the night, the moon overhead through the glass ceiling of the greenhouse, big enough it feels like he could reach out and touch it. Hogsmeade is sunny and well-lit today, bustling with activity and people pushing past them with murmured excuses. It's harder to meet Percival's eyes than usual.

"Have you been here before?" he asks, and Percival shakes his head.

"I forgot to get my permission form signed before I came here, so I had to wait for my father to send it over. I don't have a single idea what to do here," he admits, looking rueful as his eyes sweep over High Street. 

"Well, there's not much to do here after a while, really," confesses Newt. "But I can show you around."

He starts with the mainstays like Dervish & Banges and Gladrags, in case Percival finds himself in need of essentials. They move on to Scrivenshaws next, where Percival purchases a Self-Inking Quill and several more rolls of parchment - he'd used more than he thought he would trying to figure out conversions, he joked. Then it's time for the fun stuff, like the newly opened Zonko's Joke Shop, where Percival bursts out laughing when a Nose-Biting Teacup sets its eyes on Newt. 

"I'm so sorry!" The shopkeeper calls after them as they leave. "I don't know why they like freckles so much!"

Percival's still grinning when they come across a little side street where students are crowded in especially high number.

"What's here?" he asks, craning his neck over the crowd.

"Oh, that's Madam Puddifoot's," Newt says, and he feels his cheeks flush for some reason. "People like to go there as couples. On dates.”

Percival doesn’t say much else until they go to The Three Broomsticks for lunch, where he falls in love with butterbeer. Newt's just finishing his potatoes when the other boy clears his throat.

"You and Leta...you're fairly close?" asks Percival. He's not really looking at Newt, which is an unfamiliar look on his face. He seems - almost shy.

"Y-yes, I suppose. We're good friends." His only friend, but he doesn't say that.

"Only - friends?" Percival's cheeks tint slightly pink. Newt swallows, slightly stunned. So Percival is interested in Leta too. He should - he should be happy for them, really.

"Yes. As far as I know, she's not seeing anyone right now," he offers, and his stomach roils a little at the poorly disguised relief on Percival's face.

They're quiet again as they leave. On their way back is the Post Office, and Percival stops in front of it a moment as he considers the owls.

"We use pigeons back in New York, so I've been using a school owl so far," he says thoughtfully. "Would you come with me to get one of my own?"

"Why?" asks Newt, startled. "You're only here for a year."

"Yes, but having one of my own seems useful." Percival shrugs, and Newt rankles at the suggestion. He feels his whole body tense as he looks up at Percival, something hot behind his eyes.

"Useful?" Newt cries. Outrage is mixing with the unease and unhappiness he was already feeling to make something bigger, like a Hungarian Horntail in his chest. "Owls are living _creatures_ , you have to feed them and care for them! They're not just things to carry your messages for you, they're not just there to be _used_! Percival, I -"

He stops when he realizes that people are staring at them. Heat suffuses his body up to his eyes, and he looks down, away from Percival's stunned expression. He can't bear to be in this moment any longer.

He runs, and whatever Percival might have said next is lost in the roar of the wind.

 

* * *

 

When Newt gets back to the castle, he heads straight for his bed and curls up there. He hasn't felt this miserable since Fabian Bulstrode had stepped on the Fire Crab Newt had been trying to secretly raise outside Hogwarts in his second year, and he'd been distraught for _days_ then.

He doesn't understand why he feels this way. Percival liked the Bowtruckles, but it's not as if Newt expected him to suddenly love all magical creatures like he does. He shouldn't have expected anything from him, he thinks, and his chest tightens. Percival isn't anything like Newt; he's good-looking and well-liked and he'll get a girlfriend soon - get together with Leta - and the two of them will forget all about Newt and his silly little notions.

He feels sorry for himself for a while, and then tries to put his mind off anything related to Percival for a while longer. By the time he's done sulking, it's quite a ways past dinner.

Sighing, he gets up and heads to the Common Room. Thank goodness the kitchens are so close - he can just pop next door to wheedle the house elves into feeding him. 

He pauses a moment when he enters the Common Room. There's a third year hysterically crying in the corner while two others crowd around her, trying to comfort her. It's hard to make out what she's saying between her sobs and catching breaths at first, but then Newt hears a name that makes his blood run cold. _Percival_. He rushes forward. 

"What's happened to Percival?" he blurts, and one of the girls comforting her glares at Newt.

" _Nothing_!" she hisses angrily. "He's just gone into the Forbidden Forest, that daft American!"

Newt feels like all of his blood has drained out of him.

"That can't be," he stammers. "Why would he -"

But he knows why. Or at least, he thinks he might.

There's no thinking about it now. Twice in the same day, Newt bolts - out of the door, through the hallways, to the exit he uses to get to the greenhouses. His heart is beating so fast it seems almost a perpetual rumble in his chest, and there are white spots at the edges of his vision. _Percival_.

He stops at the edge of the forest and listens, but hears only indistinct sounds. He swallows and continues, wand at the ready. Percival couldn't have gone far - so long as Newt stays sharp, he should be able to find him. At least, that's what he tells himself as he ventures forward, leaves rustling under his feet. The woods rustle with unknown sounds, echoes of strange creatures, and he can't help worrying about what Percival might have run into.

It's a few minutes in, just when Newt is beginning to think that maybe Percival isn't out here after all, that he hears the inhuman shriek. A thestral!

When he reaches the clearing, what he sees almost stops his heart. Percival is laying on the ground, back propped up against a tree. He's clearly injured, one arm holding up the other, from which his wand is pointed at a thestral that hisses at him menacingly, wings flared. 

"Percival!" Newt cries. "Don't!"

The thestral turns to take him in, and its lips pull back, baring its sharp, fanged teeth.

"Newt, you have to run!" Percival shouts, but Newt ignores him. Carefully, he points his wand at himself and whispers a spell, wincing as it makes a neat cut in his arm, just enough to draw blood. The thestral's nostrils flare, and it whickers. 

"It's alright," coaxes Newt, holding his bleeding wrist out. "Come here, sweetheart."

Slowly, so very slowly, the thestral steps closer, its hooves making soft stamping noises in the dirt. Newt watches and desperately hopes that Percival, whom he can no longer see behind the thestral's wings, is not going to attack it.

When a long, slimy tongue licks his arm, he almost sighs with relief. He reaches out one hand tentatively and strokes down the ridged side of its neck. He's never been able to get this close to a thestral before; he hadn't been able to see them until the past year, since he'd been there when his grandmother passed in the summer. Still, any fascination over the moment is lost when he remembers Percival, potentially injured as he is.

When the thestral is done licking him, the blood has stopped running from the wound. Newt pats its neck again and gestures towards the forest. 

"Go on now," he says encouragingly. The thestral looks at him, then at Percival, before leaving, and then all that's left of its presence is the thudding echo of hooves.

At once it feels like his soul has left him. He staggers forward and trips, falling on his knees right before Percival, his hands braced on either side of the American boy's legs. Percival smiles at him weakly. He's dropped his wand by now, though he's still holding his wand arm, and his skin is pale and clammy to the touch. Newt is startled to realize he's gotten even closer and that he has one hand laid flat against Percival's cheek, cupping it.

"Why did you come here?" His voice comes out hoarse.

Percival smiles again. He lets go of his wand arm, and his hand unfolds to reveal a crumpled black flower. The _Negro lilium_ that Newt had mentioned once while they had been in the greenhouse together, the one he'd lamented as growing in the Forbidden Forest only at this time of year, and how he'd love to get some to see if the rumors of their effects on Bowtruckles were real.

Newt does not have words for the feeling that rises in him like a tide. When it crashes, he goes with it too, collapsing against Percival's broad chest. He feels something brush his hair, and then Percival's hand settles on his back. 

"The lily looks nice against your hair," Percival says, amused. It feels like a rumble this close, sending shivers through Newt.

"You're a bloody big idiot," he says in response, sitting up so he can look into Percival's eyes. "You - do you know how _scared_ I was?" 

Percival looks guilty. 

"I'm sorry. I just - you were so angry back in Hogsmeade, and you didn’t come to dinner, I thought -" His eyes shifted down. "I was scared you wouldn't forgive me. Not unless I did something big."

"Oh, Percival," Newt says. It comes out unintentionally sweet, and he hopes the heat he feels in his face can't be seen. Clearing his throat, he gets to his feet. "Let's get back before they realize we're gone. Are you okay?"

He holds out a hand, helping him up. The American winces as he rolls his arm.

"Yeah. I knocked my shoulder against a tree when that thing chased me and lost feeling in my wand arm, but I think it's just a bruise." 

"Thestral," Newt corrects. "So you could see it, then?"

"Why wouldn't I be able to?" Percival tilts his head curiously.

"You can only see thestrals if you've seen someone die," Newt says, voice getting softer as he continues, and a heavy silence falls over them as they walk.

"My mother," Percival suddenly says. He doesn't look at Newt. "She came down with something the healers couldn't fix this summer. That's why I came here, partially."

Newt stops.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers. Percival's stopped a few paces in front of him, and his back looks terribly lonely and yet strong, as if he's braced against whatever other hurt the world can offer him. He reaches out tentatively, but somehow touching Percival seems unthinkable now, never mind how close they'd been a few minutes ago.

"It's alright," Percival says before Newt's fingers brush his robes, and that's their cue to continue walking in silence.

They open the entrance to the castle carefully, but the hallways are dark and silent. They creep in and make their way through the castle as quietly as they can, and just when they're about to reach the point where they split up, a voice stops them.

"You boys do realize it's after hours, hrm?" Professor Dumbledore emerges from the shadows, torches lighting around him as he walks, and Newt winces. Next to Pickett, Dumbledore is his favorite professor.

"Professor Dumbledore!" Percival blurts. "It's my fault, I'm sorry!"

 _Gryffindors_ , Newt thinks, though it's not without some affection.

Dumbledore raises an eyebrow, and in the dim candlelight his blue eyes almost seem to twinkle.

"What exactly is your fault, Mr. Graves?" he asks. "All I see is two young men who've stayed out too late. While I admire your dedication to interhouse - and interschool, for that matter - diplomacy, I believe you two would be best served by sleeping soon."

Newt knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. "Yes, Professor Dumbledore," he mumbles, turning back towards the way they had been going. Percival murmurs the same and follows.

"Oh, and boys?" Professor Dumbledore calls. "I daresay you should be getting yourself to the matron in the morning, hm?" He chuckles, clearly not expecting a response.

Newt flushes. He doesn't know why Dumbledore is letting them get by on this, but he certainly appreciates it. They reach the midway point between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff without any further interruptions, and pause there a moment awkwardly.

Percival breaks the silence first.

"Thank you for saving me," he says quietly, and then looks hesitant. "Are we - are we still friends?"

Newt smiles.

"Of course we are, you daft creature," he says fondly. Percival grins back, relieved, and then he's reaching for Newt's face. Newt swallows, unsure. Then Percival plucks the black lily from his hair and offers it to him. Newt blanches - he'd forgotten it was there. Dumbledore really had let them off, then. 

"Don't give it to the Bowtruckles without me," Percival says. There's something serious in his voice and eyes, something Newt doesn't think is about the Bowtruckles. But before he can ponder it further, Percival wishes him a good night and leaves.

Newt watches his back as it disappears into the darkness. It's not until he can no longer see Percival that he turns to head for his own bed.


	3. Chapter 3

Percival joins Newt for breakfast the next day, taking the spot across from him with a quiet greeting. His arm is newly bandaged and in a sling, and there's a patch across his cheek as well. It's hard to avoid noticing the swathe of students staring at Percival admiringly. Evidently, word of their exploits (greatly exaggerated) had spread throughout the school overnight. Some of the students are even looking at Newt, which makes him nervous.

They eat in relative quiet for a few moments before Percival clears his throat, causing Newt to look up.

"I was thinking...if you're free, next Hogsmeade weekend - would you come with me to the animal shop?" He looks nervous, strangely enough, but meets Newt's eyes squarely. "I thought about it and I'd like to get a cat."

"Of course I'll come with you," Newt says, delighted, and Percival grins back, relieved.

They start spending more time together in the open. It's mostly Percival seeking Newt out at first - finding him in the library and at meals, asking him to be his partner in Potions, coming every night to the greenhouse - and then they settle into a routine, used to seeing each other at all free times. Newt signs up for a long-term cauldron spot in the upper-year Potions laboratory, where he starts the black lily potion for the Bowtruckles. It'll take a month or so to finish, much to Percival's consternation.

Leta is delighted at Newt and Percival's new closeness, but she doesn't make nearly as many attempts to join them as Newt would have expected from her. Then again, he supposes, she's serious now, and having Newt around isn't conducive to flirting. Percival sometimes makes mention of speaking to her in Transfiguration, so they're likely getting closer there.

When the time for the next Hogsmeade weekend approaches, Newt half-wonders if he should invite Leta to come with them, or if she'll invite herself. But Percival says nothing about inviting other friends, not even Seraphina, so Newt stays silent as well.

The animal shop in Hogsmeade is smaller and messier than the one in Diagon Alley, but Newt is enchanted anyway. There are more unusual creatures here than normal wizarding pets: a row of Crups in individual cages, a pen of giant dung beetles, and a huge murky tank mostly filled with seaweed, though he thinks he sees eyes peering at him from inside. He coos at a baby Niffler in a cage by the register while Percival peruses the cats.

"Careful with that one," The wizened shopkeeper croaks just as Newt's about to try extending a finger into the cage. "He likes to get out and take little trinkets, if you've got anything shiny on you. Lucky he's not big enough to take the good stuff yet!" He cackles and Newt smiles awkwardly before shuffling away to join Percival.

"Have you decided yet?" he asks. Percival's brow is furrowed in concentration as he thoroughly considers each cat. He's grown taller, he suddenly realizes. Where the two boys had been of similar heights before, Percival now tops Newt by a good inch.  And had his shoulders gotten broader as well? He'd joined the Gryffindor Quidditch team despite Seraphina’s warning, though his temporary student status meant he was a substitute player rather than a permanent one, and the injury he'd sustained in the forest had kept him from playing in any real games yet.

"None of them seem right," Percival mutters. Newt has to agree, there's nothing very interesting about non-magical cats.

The shopkeeper speaks up, suddenly nearly behind them - when had he moved? "I have a batch of new kittens in the back if you're interested. Not quite ready yet, but we can work around that." He waves for them to follow him into the back, where a large box sits surrounded by bags of animal feed. 

The little kittens range in color and pattern, and though they're not nearly as interesting as magical creatures, Newt has to admit they're quite adorable. He pokes a ball of orange fur and it unrolls sleepily, revealing a tiny pink tongue and squinting black eyes. Percival kneels next to him and starts examining the kittens, sometimes picking one up. Finally, one pure black kitten hisses and bites his finger.

"Ow! You're a feisty little one, aren't you?" Percival smiles fondly at the black kitten and strokes its back with the other finger until it calms down enough for him to scoop it up. "What do you think, Newt?" He holds it out.

Newt takes the ball obligingly and checks between its legs.

"Female," he pronounces, and Percival rolls his eyes.

"I mean, what do you _think_ about her?" he asks again. Oh. The kitten in question looks up at Newt, her eyes a subdued green.

"She seems...cat-ish?" Newt ventures. "Quite alright."

Percival sighs and shakes his head, though he's still smiling slightly as he takes her back.

"What should we name her?" he asks. Newt looks at the kitten's jet black fur and says the first thing that comes to mind.

"Margaret?" he suggests. Percival winces.

"You're terrible with names," he says soberly. Theseus had said the same - evidently Newt had inherited his naming skills from his mother (who had named both the Scamander children, but at least Father had gotten a say in Theseus' middle names).

Percival considers the little kitten again, and then says thoughtfully, "What about Lily?"

"That's quite lovely," Newt agrees, seeing the connection between the name and the flower. Something warm flourishes inside him at the idea of Percival's cat being connected to that heart-pounding moment they'd shared in the forest.

"Lily it is, then. I'll take her," Percival tells the shopkeeper. "She has the fighting spirit of a Wampus."

"She still needs another few weeks with her mother, but I can have her sent to you at Hogwarts, if you'll tell me your name," The old man says. "Two sickles."

Percival agrees to having the kitten sent to Hogwarts, and Newt helps him count out the sickles at the register, the American boy grumbling about strange British wizarding money. When they leave, Newt decides it's time.

"Come along," He says, tugging at Percival's elbow. "I've an idea."

Just as he expects, Honeydukes overwhelms Percival, who takes in the rows of glittering sweets with wide eyes. Hogwarts students swarm the aisles, sampling the goods and shuffling out with heavy bags. The air is heavy with the scent of chocolate, and a spelled horn squawks the day's deals and announcements: "Half a pound of any Honeydukes original chocolate for one sickle! Holiday gift boxes, starting at 43 knuts! Ten new Bertie Bott's Jelly Bean Flavours, including mushroom and earwax!"

"You - how come you didn't take me here last time?" Percival demands. HIs head swivels to follow a little girl who's carrying a lollipop the size of her face. "I've been gambling at Exploding Snap to get my Chocolate Frog fix! _I almost lost my eyebrows last time!_ "

Newt shrugs, but it doesn't seem to matter, because Percival is already off exploring the candy shop's offerings. It saves him the trouble of saying that he'd been saving Honeydukes for the last part of their previous visit.

His own sweet tooth being rather small, he picks up a box of crystallized pineapple, Theseus' favorite. It'll make a nice treat if it gets to him in time for Christmas. When he's finished ringing out, he goes to find Percival, who's eying a giant slab of dark chocolate with a calculating gleam that says he's trying to figure out exactly how much he can carry back to Hogwarts.

"Percival," Newt says sternly, and the boy in question shoots him a rakish grin. Not for the first time, Newt is struck by how handsome he is.

"Only chocolate and Sugar Quills," Percival promises. "A pound?"

Newt allows him half a pound, and he smiles to himself when Percival happily goes to pay. Then he catches whispers that dispel the warmth that has been surrounding him all day.

"- with that _weird_ Hufflepuff all the time -"

"- never spends time with his own house anymore -"

" _Strange_."

He flinches as the words confirm fears he'd been pushing away. Percival shouldn't be spending so much time with him. It had been okay before when it was just the greenhouse, but now people are noticing, are talking. He doesn't want people to talk about Percival that way, and - he closes his eyes. He's been so quiet, so hidden away these past few years. He knows, logically, that Bulstrode and his friends must have matured by now from when they were third years shoving Newt around, but - he's still _afraid._

Animals might bite and sting, but the pain that people inflict lasts much, much longer. That's why Newt will let so many creatures into his heart, but not many people will make it past his walls. Leta knows well enough to keep a fair distance, but Percival doesn't.

His heart sinks. He should have known better than to let him get this close. Once Percival realizes that spending time with Newt is destroying his reputation, he'll push him away. The thought of Percival's face filling with cold rejection bites into him, and he swallows.

"Newt? Are you alright?" Percival's voice breaks through his reverie, and he opens his eyes to find the American peering at him, concerned. 

"I'm fine," Newt assures him hurriedly. "I was just thinking. Let's go back, shall we?"

He moves a bit quicker than usual, eager to leave the shop and the judging eyes of the other students. He barely listens to Percival on their way back, doesn't even look at him until they've returned to their usual split-off point, but thankfully Newt has a habit of not making eye contact, and Percival doesn't appear to notice anything wrong.

"Listen, Newt," says Percival, clearing his throat. "It, uh, meant a lot to me that you came today. Thanks again."

"Oh," says Newt, who is startled enough to look up and meet his eyes. "You're quite welcome, though I haven't really done much."

"You've done more than you know," Percival murmurs, and then, to Newt's surprise, the American reddens slightly. "Ah - have a good one now, Newt. I'll see you at dinner." He claps him lightly on the shoulder and leaves.

Of course, he does not know that Newt will skip dinner that night to avoid being seen together. Or that Newt will take to studying in the Hufflepuff common room instead of the library, and take different routes to classes so he does not bump into Percival so easily. He starts spending time with Leta again, something he's mostly neglected since the Ilvermorny students' arrival. Thankfully, the two have a habit of dropping in and out of each other’s lives as their various projects take precedence, and she doesn’t comment on why he doesn’t talk to Percival any longer.

The only thing he cannot avoid is the greenhouse, but he does not wish to let that go. This, at least, he can keep.

"I haven't seen you in ages!" Percival declares when he walks into the greenhouse a few days after their trip to Hogsmeade. "I do believe you owe me a sweet for this."

"You saw me in double Potions today," Newt points out dryly, but he opens a drawer and tosses a Chocolate Frog to Percival anyway, hiding his smile. Percival catches it easily and flashes him a grin before his face morphs into something more serious.

"Right, but, it's not nearly the same. I feel like we haven't been able to properly talk in a while. What's going on?" he asks, fixing his gaze on Newt, who swallows and inexplicably feels his heart speed up.

"Oh, nothing - I've just been busy lately," he lies quickly. "Hogwarts fifth-years, you know, we have our O.W.L.s to take at the end of the year, and I'd very much like to do well, in case -" _In case they come up with a career where I can work with magical creatures._

Percival frowns.

"You should have told me you studied better alone," he says, and something like guilt passes over his face. Newt feels an answering flash of guilt at that, but he squashes it down. This is for the better, he tells himself. For Percival's own good.

"It's alright," he says. "Don't worry. We'll still have here to talk, won't we?"

He tries to smile comfortingly, but it must come out weakly, because Percival just frowns and turns back to the tree, wand at the ready to cast the diagnostic spells.

To Newt's relief, after that night, Percival starts spending more time with the other Gryffindors, especially those on the Quidditch team, as he takes to showing up at more practices as his shoulder heals. And Newt is okay with this, with putting distance between them, or at least, that's what he thinks until Leta says one day,

"Really, I don't know what it is about boys and making themselves miserable." She tosses her hair and sniffs.  

"How do you mean?" inquires Newt, who doesn't take his eyes off his parchment. It's very difficult work, listing out all the various properties of moonstones, and he has to be careful he hasn't missed one; he needs an Exceeds Expectations or an Outstanding on his O.W.L. to make it into the N.E.W.T. level course next year. She looks at him disbelievingly, then gives an unladylike snort and gathers her books.

"Clearly you're not going to fix this on your own," Leta says, and swoops away in a flourish of robes. He stares after her, then shrugs. He's missed one of the protective potions that uses moonstone as a primary ingredient, he thinks.

 

* * *

 

The next day at dinner-time, Newt waits until all the other Hufflepuffs have filed out of the common room before he creeps out. He's ready to tickle the pear when a voice interrupts.

"Heading down to the kitchens?" It's Percival, hands stuffed casually in his pockets. He leans against the wall.

"Oh - yes, I'm quite busy tonight, so I thought I'd grab a sandwich," Newt makes up, which he thinks is quite a feat considering how blank his mind is. It's been so long since he's looked at Percival for more than a second that he almost aches. He even sways towards Percival a moment before he realizes what he's doing.

But he must shut this off. This part of himself that longs to be the other boy's friend cannot be fulfilled. _Percival will be happier this way_ , he tells himself, the same thing he's been telling himself for the past two weeks every time he catches Percival's hopeful face in the crowd and looks away.

Still, looking at the other boy now, he cannot quite believe his own mantra. Percival's face is creased with exhaustion, the lines of his normally broad shoulders broken by a slump. He looks unsure, like when Newt had first led him into the greenhouse. He opens his mouth like he's going to say something, and then shuts it.

For one crazy moment, Newt wonders if he's the reason for this. It's that wild thought that leads him to blurt, "Join me?"

Percival doesn't say anything, just follows, but when they reach the bright warmth of the kitchen, there might be a ghost of a smile on his face. 

"Ah, Master Newt, you is missing the dinner again!" Sibby squeaks disapprovingly, though the house-elf is already spreading a cloth over the small table that Newt has been eating at, and silverware appears on the surface a moment later. "We has been making more vegetable dishes for the Hufflepuff table just for you, we is!" 

"Sorry, Sibby," Newt offers with a small smile. "Thanks so much. This is my friend Percival - he likes meat."

Within minutes, a slab of pork is on the table, along with a spinach quiche and several smaller dishes. "Incredible!" Percival declares, much to the house-elves' pleasure. They even bring him a carafe of coffee.

"They make a lovely chocolate eclair too," Newt adds, and then Percival does smile for real.

When they sit down to eat, it is in silence. Newt can't help but sneak glances at Percival, as if the top of his bowed head might give him the answers. The thing is, he doesn't know what questions he's asking, so it all seems rather futile. It's the fifth time he looks over at the other boy that Percival jerks up and catches him. His mouth twitches, and then he says quietly, "I forgot how exhausting it was, being around others."

Around them, the bustle of noise - knives chopping, soups boiling, meat frying - seems to fade into a muffle.

"I miss you, Newt," he continues, and the words that slip so easily from his mouth feel like an electric shock. "It's hard to say it, but I do."

That can't be right, because Percival never makes anything look hard. Newt looks at his food, not knowing what to say.

"I know you're busy, and I'm sorry for being selfish, but...I'm flying in my first Quidditch game this Saturday against Ravenclaw. Rosenbaum got hit by a Bludger too hard during practice." Percival's lip quirks slightly at the memory, but his expression resumes its seriousness. "I'd really like if you could come watch."

He stands with a scrape of his chair, and house-elves come scurrying to gather up his dishes. Raking his fingers through his hair, Percival looks, for a moment, almost wistful.

"Just think about it, Newt," he says softly.

When he lies awake in bed that night, Newt thinks he finally might understand what Leta meant by making himself miserable.

 

* * *

 

Slytherins, particularly not pureblood Slytherins, don't lose their temper. At least, that's what Leta says, but she thwacks him in the face with a donut when he tells her about the invitation and says he's not sure if he should go.

"I think you might be overreacting a bit," says Newt, a little miffed, as he dabs the powdered sugar off his face.

"If you ask me, I'm not reacting enough," Leta huffs. "Eat the donut, be a good dear." She throws a sharp glare in the direction of a nearby Hufflepuff who stares at her for that comment, and the poor student beats a hasty retreat. Then she leans across the table, voice low enough only that Newt can hear it. "Typical fella like that, you think it's easy for him to seek out someone who's avoiding him and tell them he _misses them_? I wouldn't do it for all the Galleons in the world."

"That's because you don't need any money," Newt points out. She sighs impatiently.

"Alright then, I wouldn't do it for all the Outstanding O.W.L.s in the world." She snaps. "The point is, he wants you to come, and you and I both know you're more than caught up on your homework. So put on your finest Gryffindor red - _ugh_ , I can't believe I just said that - this Saturday and go watch that dolt be pelted by bludges or whatever they're called."

Newt regards her for a moment.

"You care a lot," he says finally. She frowns.

"Of course I do," she says, then adds a moment later, "Don't think I've missed that uneaten donut, Newton."

He meekly eats the fried pastry, wondering what it is about his friends and thinking he's too skinny. At the same time, something in him feels resigned. Leta must care for Percival a great deal, to come over to the Hufflepuff table and berate him into going to his Quidditch game. He should support them, even if it's possible that their getting together would mean no more time for Newt.

Percival doesn't come to the greenhouse for the rest of the week, too busy with practices, so Newt doesn't get his chance to tell him he's coming to the game until the day of. Percival is stony-faced at breakfast and eating alone for once, no fans or friends about him - he's retained his Ilvermorny habit of not wanting to be disturbed on game days, it seems. Still, Newt screws up the courage to walk over to the Gryffindor table, knowing he might not get the chance to talk to him afterwards.

He lingers across the table from Percival and wrings his hands nervously until the American looks up, eyebrow raised. Then a look of surprise comes over his face, and he grins.

"You're coming!" he says, standing up from his seat with a clatter of silverware. Newt smiles, though something in him feels unsure.

"You asked me to," he points out, and Percival's grin grows even wider.

"That scarf looks awful with your hair," he points out, and Newt blushes. He'd transfigured his Hufflepuff scarf to turn red and gold that morning, all while the portraits in the common room had clucked their tongues disapprovingly.

"I'm sure Ravenclaw colors would look better on him, but do you really want him wearing those?" Leta strides up behind him; her only concession to the game seems to be a gleaming pin of a lion on her robes and bright red lipstick.

"I suppose not," Percival concedes, then smiles at them. "Thanks again for coming. Er - I'll see you after the game then?"

He looks hopeful, and Newt keeps his mouth shut, knowing he's asking Leta. She glances at Newt, then pauses before answering,

"I expect you'll be too busy celebrating with your team afterwards - don't you know how these things go? If you win, that is."

Percival seems to deflate a bit as he looks at Newt.

"Right then. Well, see you some other time, I suppose," he says, and turns back to his breakfast.

Leta elbows Newt as they leave, but when he protests "What?" she doesn't answer, just rolls her eyes and commands him to eat his breakfast quickly so they can get good seats for the game.

Newt doesn't go to many Quidditch games, but the stands seem even more crowded with Gryffindor supporters than usual today. He supposes it's because Percival is finally going to play - there seem to be an awful lot of supporters from the other houses in the Gryffindor stands. To his surprise, he and Leta end up sitting next to Seraphina Picquery, who gives them a solemn nod. She's wearing a red and gold pin as well, though this one shows a many-tailed cat surrounded by clovers. He squints at it, confused.

"What's that pin about?" Leta inquires. She's always said that subtlety was not her strong point.

"Wampus is Percival's house at Ilvermorny," Seraphina replies coolly, and Newt blushes even though she hadn't been talking to him. He feels like this is something he should have known - hadn't Percival said something about wampus cats, back when they were picking Lily?

It's not until the players take a pitch that Newt finally realizes the gravity of what's going on. Percival is wearing a helmet and all sorts of padding, and the short bat he's carrying hardly seems enough defense against the Bludgers, which are straining against their straps, eager to break bones. The Beater Percival was replacing had been injured by these, Newt thinks fearfully. He tenses and leans forward in his seat, fingers starting to drum nervously. 

Seraphina, who does not take her eyes off the pitch, says, "He'll be alright. He's one of the best Quodpot players in his year. And he plays baseball with No-Majs sometimes." Newt reddens again. Somehow she's very good at knowing what he's thinking. He doesn't know what baseball is, but he hopes it gives Percival an advantage.

The whistle blows and the players take to the air. Newt has never been quite that good at flying, and he watches in amazement as Percival laps the pitch easily, almost gracefully, twirling the bat in his hand. His broom is American-made, and its jet-black handle contrasts starkly with its silver twigs. He takes the first crack of the game, sending a Bludger zooming towards a Ravenclaw Chaser. It sends her off-balance enough to miss the Quaffle, and Gryffindor steals it. Newt doesn't follow the Quaffle though, only Percival, who suddenly lurches towards the Gryffindor Seeker and sends a Bludger flying away from her with even more power than before.

He feels like he holds his breath for the entire game, eyes fixed only on Percival, who's grinning and even laughing as he flies up and down the pitch, sending Bludgers flying one way or another. His unusually colored broom weaves between the other players easily, and Newt can already hear students in the stands murmuring about where they might buy their own. The commentator says something about Percival from time to time - "Golly, the Americans sure know how to hit, don't they?" - but Newt doesn't really pay attention, doesn't know what the score is. All he knows is that Percival is ecstatic in danger.

He's shaken from his reverie by what feels like an earthquake, but turns out to be the entirety of the Gryffindor stands celebrating their victory, the Snitch wriggling in the Seeker's grip. "THREE HUNDRED AND TWENTY TO NINETY!" The commentator is roaring. Percival grins, but he seems to be looking into the stands rather than at his teammates.

"We better get going." Leta grabs Newt by the arm. "Before the crazy Gryffindor stampede overruns us."

He follows, but can't help but feel like Seraphina stares after them as they leave.

 

* * *

 

Of course the houses generally celebrate by themselves in their common rooms after winning matches - Newt often accidentally wandered out in the middle of one, surprised because he hadn't even known they were having a game that day - but it doesn't explain why he suddenly feels the need to go to the greenhouse. It's too early to take the day's readings, but when he breathes in the magically humidified air, he feels a little more at peace. Away from the Quidditch pitch, his heart can finally slow down.

The Bowtruckles know him by now, and within minutes of entering, they come down the trees, eager to greet him in case he has any treats. He doesn't, but they don't seem offended. Percival's favorite Bowtruckle jumps onto his robe and makes a sound that he thinks might be something like curiosity.

"Are you looking for Percival?" he asks, raising one finger to stroke its head. It chirps in what he takes to be an affirmative. "He's not here at the moment, I'm afraid. But he'll be very happy when he does come back, you see, because he's just won a big Quidditch game. I would have taken you, but it was very scary to watch, you know."

"Was it?"

Newt jumps, color flooding his cheeks. The Bowtruckle squeaks with displeasure at the movement. Percival stands behind him, arms crossed as he leaned against a tree, amused look on his face. It almost mirrors his pose from the kitchen hallway the other night, except he looks much happier this time, flushed with energy, hair still wet from the showers.

"Percival! Oh, I thought you'd be - congratulations," he blurts, and feels stupid, but Percival just strides forward and scoops him up, arms around his waist. (The Bowtruckle squeaks in alarm.) They linger there for a moment - Newt barely inches off the ground, too startled to return the embrace - then he's being set down.

Newt's almost certain his face is matching his Gryffindor scarf by now.

"Thanks," Percival says, suddenly looking away. "I - I was really glad you could see that."

"Me too." In the greenhouse, Newt finds he can be more honest. "It was scary, but you were wonderful out there."

Percival turns back, face bright.

"Was I?" he asks, as if there could have been any doubt.

"Of course! But," and something occurs to Newt, "Shouldn't you be celebrating with the other Gryffindors?"

"I - wanted to see non-Gryffindors." Percival sounds hesitant, though he smiles at Newt as if he should understand. And he does.

"I think Leta's gone to the library to catch up on Transfiguration homework," he offers, and turns back to the tree, ready to let the Bowtruckle go back home. It lingers in his palm, however.

"Leta? Newt, why would I want to see Leta?" Percival asks with a laugh. Newt turns back, frowning.

"Just because she's a Slytherin doesn't mean you can discount her!" he snaps. It's clear they're interested in each other - why does Percival feel like he has to lie to Newt like this? Percival's laugh disappears.

"What, so you're serious about her then?" he demands, and he seems to loom over Newt angrily, but Newt doesn't shrink back, unafraid to stand up for his best friend.

"Of course I am! You can't just come in here with your American - _wampus_ thing or whatever and think that you can judge a person by their house," Newt retorts. The Bowtruckle is distressed by now, and he shoos it back onto the trunk.

"I never had a problem with her because of her house, are you stupid?" Percival's biting tone hurts, but Newt's too furious to think about it right now.

"Then what is it, then? Leta's a good person, Percival. She deserves someone good." He clenches his fists. "And if you can't be that -"

"Stop!" Percival cries suddenly, and when it comes to defending his friends, Newt certainly wouldn't stop, except he looks up and sees the strange expression on Percival's face. No longer angry, just - confused. He pauses, and the American continues, "Aren't you the one who wants to go out with her?"

Newt blinks, confused. "What? No, she's just a friend!"

Suddenly all the tension has dissipated from the air. A look of relief breaks out over Percival's face and he holds up his hands in surrender.

"Newt - Newt, she's just a friend to me too," he says sincerely. "I think there's been a misunderstanding here."

"Oh," Newt says dumbly. "Are you sure - that is - oh."

He replays their words and sees where they could have gone wrong. He hears a strange noise, and realizes it's Percival laughing. His shoulders are shaking with it, his hand pressed to his mouth. And Newt can't help but join him, not so much from the humor as it is from the relief that he feels at knowing Percival isn't interested in Leta in that way. Everything is going to stay just the same.

Then Percival cups Newt's face in his hands and kisses him.

His lips are warm and chapped, and they scrape lightly against Newt's wide mouth. It feels more like a press of mouths than a kiss, though Newt wouldn’t really know the difference. Percival’s hands are warm, almost searing against his cheeks, and when his thumb moves slightly, it sends sparks running down Newt’s spine. He shivers into the touch, wondering how something could feel so overwhelming yet not be enough.

When they part, the ghosts of their laughs are still on their faces, just for a moment.

Then the look on Percival's face shifts to stunned disbelief, and then, slowly, painfully, to horror.

Newt doesn’t know what to say, but a soft sound escapes his mouth when his lips part, and it seems to shake Percival awake.  He jerks back so quickly it’s like Newt’s turned to dragonfire.

Percival bolts, and Newt is left alone in the greenhouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really enjoying hearing what little things you noticed and loved! (And all these interpretations of Leta's motivations...hopefully this chapter clears things up a little more, but we'll see.) As you may be able to guess, some angst is coming up soon, but hold out hope for our boys, eh? As always, feedback is appreciated <3


	4. Chapter 4

Newt doesn't see Percival after that, nor does he expect to. He's not entirely sure if he wants to see him again. He feels like the greatest fool in the world after what's happened. Left standing there wanting more, when Percival clearly didn't want the last thing to do with him.

How could he have not noticed what it all meant? The way his eyes couldn't help seeking Percival out in a crowd, how his heart would start pounding any time the other got too close, and how, after weeks of avoidance, he positively ached to be near him again. To just close his eyes and listen, bask in his glow.

All things no sane man would allow, or want, from another.

This isn't the first inclination Newt's had of his preferences, but it's the first time something's ever come of it, and even though the misery of his rejection settles in his chest like a heavy rock, he can't help touching his lips from time to time. His own fingers don't produce nearly the same response that Percival had, but they remind him of what had transpired.

Leta picks up on his change in mood despite his best efforts, but she doesn't ask him what happened, and he's glad for it, because he doesn't want to be the one who crushes her hopes about Percival. And Leta is a wonderful friend, truly, but - he can't talk to her about this kind of thing. He can't talk to anyone. He's learned that well enough by now.

He keeps his eyes down in Potions, unable to bear the idea of making eye contact with Percival. He does his Bowtruckle research alone, and when his stomach rumbles, he tries not to think about the sandwiches and tea that seem an eternity past. The house elves become accustomed to him taking his meals in the kitchens yet again.

It almost feels like an existence he can live with, for a time.

Then one day Professor Pickett sends him to Professor Dumbledore's office to retrieve a book - they're doing Bowtruckles that day, and the professor says, with a knowing wink, that he doubts missing class will be of much trouble to Newt.

He's happy to help, of course, and he's almost made it to the office when something slams between his shoulder blades. He staggers forward with a gasp but doesn't fall, and manages to turn around in time to see Fabian Bulstrode. A Transfiguration textbook lies on the ground behind Newt.

His heart sinks at the sight of the Slytherin, who seems to have gotten even stockier and bull-like. He hadn’t had a run-in with Bulstrode since last winter, when the other boy had tossed ground snake fangs into his cauldron and caused it to explode in his face. Newt’s eyebrows still hadn’t fully recovered from the incident. He’d rather hoped the reason he hadn’t seen him since then was because Bulstrode had lost interest in him, but clearly that wasn’t true.

"Missed me, Fido?" Bulstrode asks, cocking his head with a grin. "Haven't seen you in a while. Suppose Lestrange and that Yank are tired of your _freak_ ass by now."

He's only half-right, but it stings nonetheless. Newt gulps and wonders if he should reach for his wand, or if that might goad Bulstrode into attacking him first. The Slytherin starts advancing on him, but he merely seems conversational, not threatening.

"You know, I really do have to wonder why I've been so generous to you this year. I mean, all it would take is one slip of the tongue, and the whole school would know about all those visits you made to St. Mungo's this summer." His purr sends ice down Newt's spine, and blind panic overtakes him.

"How did you -" he chokes. Not even _Theseus_ knows - he'd left the visits to the Mind Healers and the reason for them out of his letters, not wanting his brother to worry while he was on the battlefront.

"What, thought you could keep it completely secret?" Bulstrode sneers. Newt staggers back until his back meets stone, but Bulstrode just continues until he's close enough to press his hand over his throat. The pressure is light, but sends dizzying fear through Newt.

"How do you think people will look at you when they know what's wrong with your head?" He asks, voice low, and that's when Newt's vision goes white. He chokes, clutching at the hand at his throat, trying to get it off, to get away from this, but Bulstrode just clutches harder, fingers digging into his neck -

" _STUPEFY_ _!_ "

Bulstrode crumples to the ground, and oxygen courses into Newt's lungs. He bends over, gasping, hands going to his throat to press at the tender flesh there. His breaths runs deep and ragged, unable to get enough air, and there are still spots lingering in his vision when he looks up.

Percival's standing there, cold with fury, wand still pointed at Bulstrode though the Slytherin is out like a light. Then he looks up and sees Newt. His face goes pale immediately and he strides over, kicking Bulstrode out of the way.

"Newt, are you okay?" he asks, and he reaches for Newt's jaw, tilting it so he can see his neck better. Then he realizes what he's doing, and whips his hands back. "What did he do to you? I'm going to hex him to hell and back when he wakes up, that god damned snake -"

Newt shakes his head, still not trusting himself to speak. No matter what Percival does now, it doesn't matter, because Bulstrode _knows_ that Newt is - is that way. To his embarrassment, tears start prickling in his eyes.

"Newt? Newt, please. Tell me what's wrong." Percival bites his lip. "I'll fix it, I swear."

But Newt just closes his eyes and wills the tears not to fall because there's nothing Percival can do to fix this. 

"Might I ask what's going on here?" Professor Dumbledore's mild, unmistakable voice interrupts them.

Newt gasps, eyes flying open. "Professor!" The word comes out a harsh croak.

"Professor Dumbledore, I found this Slytherin choking Newt," Percival says immediately, stepping away from Newt so he can point at Bulstrode's unconscious body. "I Stupefied him without thinking."

"I can't help but notice you haven't apologized for it, Mr. Graves. Mr. Scamander, is this true?" Dumbledore's piercing eyes focus on Newt, and he nods.

"Professor," he whispers, feeling like there's a stone lodged in his throat, "He - he threatened to tell the school something he knows, about me, I - I'll have to transfer -"

Dumbledore's face turns thunderous, the first time Newt's ever seen anything of the sort on his normally serene face.

"I will take Mr. Bulstrode with me to the matron and sort this out. Do not worry yourself, Mr. Scamander. You shall not have to leave Hogwarts." With a wave of his wand, the professor levitates Bulstrode. He raises an eyebrow at Percival and Newt. "I hope you aren't expecting me to give you points for Stupefying another student, regardless of how noble your intentions may have been, Mr. Graves. Move along now."

Percival nods jerkily and grabs Newt by the elbow, though his grip is light.

"Come with me," he murmurs, and Newt follows without thinking.

The hallways aren't entirely empty despite classes going on, and Percival makes quick turns when he sees signs of other students coming until they end up in an isolated hallway with a single door, which Percival opens to reveal an empty, somewhat dusty classroom. Newt can't quite remember there being a classroom there, but then again, you could be at Hogwarts for fifty years and not know its ins and outs completely.

Once they're inside, Percival closes the door behind them. Then he turns around and grabs Newt by the waist forcefully, pulling him into a rough kiss. Their lips mash together painfully, and Newt can't help the sound of surprise that comes out of his throat. Then, as quickly as it's begun, Percival shoves him away, and Newt stumbles back with a cry.

Before he can say anything, Percival's crouched on the floor, head buried in his hands. And Newt can't be upset with him, because he recognizes this look and everything that’s in it. The intense shame. The denial. The desire to rip out everything he's feeling.

He crouches before Percival and reaches out tentatively. The other boy doesn't shy away from his hand, so he finally lays it on his shoulder, feeling how a shudder goes through Percival at the touch.

"Percival," Newt says softly. Percival doesn't look up, but Newt goes on anyway, hoping his words come out right.

"I know what I am. I've - accepted it, that I'm unfixable. But you - if you don't want to, you don't have to say anything." He doesn’t know if what he says is comforting or not. He only wants him to know that he will not force him to confront this.

Percival makes a sound then, and Newt can't tell if it's a laugh or a sob. The American lifts his head from his folded arms, and his eyes are wet, his face grief-stricken.

"I _had_ been hiding it. Denying everything. And then I saw you, and I just couldn't fucking _stay away_ ,” He hisses the last words, but the anger isn't directed at Newt. "I wanted to get closer to you, to - to -" He can't seem to finish. Another choked sob leaves his throat. 

"I - I _can't_ be like this, Newt. Not when I’m a Graves. It would tear my father apart, so soon after Mother -" Percival almost falls apart then, but he bites his lip so hard it turns white instead, unwilling to outright cry. And Newt can't help but ache for him, for the way Percival is tearing himself apart. He knows this struggle, though in a slightly different shade, and he will not make this any more difficult for Percival. Even if that means giving up the small, tenuous hope in the corner of his heart. 

"It's alright. I understand. I won’t tell a soul." Newt tries to smile, but his face feels like lead.

Percival finally looks into his eyes then, and the hope in his face cuts into Newt like a hot knife. But he swallows it down as he holds his hand out to Percival, who lets Newt help him up. The American holds onto his hand this time, the heat from his body lingering just a moment before he lets go.

"We can still be friends though, can't we?" Percival asks softly. Newt's heart breaks, just a little, but he answers, "Yes," all the same, because he will do anything to keep him, even if it has to be like this.

 

* * *

 

So for the second time in a month, Newt's routine changes again.  Percival slots back into his life as smoothly as if he’d never left - taking the cauldron next to him in Potions, wandering over to the Hufflepuff table for meals, studying with him. Leta raises an eyebrow at Newt the first time Percival joins the two of them in the library, but she doesn't press for answers. She's fallen into that state where she doesn't particularly notice or care about anything besides her current research, though she won't tell Newt what it's about. She even seems disinterested in Percival, who returns the sentiment.

Percival does not rejoin Newt in the greenhouse. It’s the only time they’re actually alone, so it's not as if Newt expects him to, but still, he feels a little bereft. The Bowtruckles do too, crooning with disappointment when they see only Newt coming to feed them.

The day after his confrontation with Bulstrode, Dumbledore calls him out of class, and Newt follows him into his office with his heart practically in his throat. The Transfiguration professor does not meander from topic to topic the way he normally does, thankfully.

"You may be interested in hearing that Mr. Bulstrode has made a full recovery from Mr. Graves' Stunning Spell - which was, by the way, quite skilled. Professor Merrythought would be quite impressed, I imagine, in any other circumstance. Now, Mr. Bulstrode did not deny that he had physically assaulted you, so there will be no points taken from any of your respective houses. Sweet?" He offers a tin of what appear to be bright yellow Muggle candies to Newt.

"Oh, no thank you, sir," Newt says, and wonders how he should ask about the other subject. Luckily, Dumbledore seems to almost read his mind. He replaces the tin in his desk and continues.

"Now, when I questioned Mr. Bulstrode about what exactly his intentions had been, he confessed that a friend of his had seen you entering St. Mungo's several times during the summer. However, when I asked further, it became abundantly clear to me that neither Mr. Bulstrode nor his friend have any idea what you were in St. Mungo's for." Dumbledore's smile seemed to radiate mostly from his blue eyes, which had fine lines gathering around them, making him look distinguished. "So you see, it might have just been that you were regularly on the wrong end of a Blast-Ended Skrewt this summer - which is quite believable considering your interests, Mr. Scamander."

Newt looks down at his hands and wishes he had taken the candy after all, if only to have something to do with his hands. So Bulstrode hadn't known… but he’d guessed it had something to do with Mind Healers, hadn't he? What's to stop him from talking now, especially now that he's been attacked? He swallows, and it's not until a larger hand rests on top of his own that he realizes he's shaking.

"Mr. Scamander,” Dumbledore says again, voice kind. "He will not say a word to anyone about your visits nor what they may have been for. I promise you this."

It's only because it's Dumbledore that Newt relaxes enough to look up. The older man wears an expression that's a mix of sympathy and sadness. And perhaps Newt is deluding himself, but…he thinks he sees understanding there, too. Horrified by his own thoughts, he looks back down to his hands. A Hogwarts professor wouldn’t - be like him.

"I wish I could assure you that all will be well, Mr. Scamander.  You'll have to forgive me for being presumptuous, but… it pains me to see young men and women like yourself come through Hogwarts. Living in such pain and fear, wishing only to fit in." As he's speaking, Dumbledore's eyes are glazed, as if he's somewhere far away. "All I can tell you is that you are not wrong in being who you are. No one is."

The professor is gracious, to not say a word about the way Newt draws his hands up to his face and covers it completely. He's sure that if anyone looked at him at that moment, they would see all his secrets and sins laid out in the open. The worst part, he thinks, is that he's waited so long for this, for someone to tell him he wasn't sick in the head or some sort of pervert. But now someone has done it, and nothing has changed - especially not how  _alone_ he feels.

 

* * *

 

Leaving Dumbledore's office, Newt is startled to see snowflakes drifting through the air outside. The first snowfall of the season is rather late, but as he pauses and raises his fingertips to the glass, he can't help but think it's come at an opportune time. To him, snow feels like a pause, as if the castle has gone to sleep for the winter, blanketed in white.

For the rest of Hogwarts, however, it only spurs a frenzy as the students collectively realize that the Mistletoe Ball is in a matter of weeks. Suddenly, invitations are being fired left and right, every conversation is about finding a date, and Newt more than once finds himself stuck with a Potions partner who seems more intent on discussing who's still available than achieving an acceptable grade.

Of course, the hottest topic of conversation is who Percival Graves is going to ask to the ball, and Newt stays well out of _that_. At least, that's what he tries to do until Percival slams his books down in front of him in the library.

"I'm done for, Newt," he moans as he collapses into a chair with equal drama and impact. "You might as well kill me now."

Some strands have escaped from his styled hair. Newt itches to push them back into place but ignores the desire in favor of inquiring, "Why?"

"Some seventh-year's asked Seraphina to the ball," Percival explains. He runs his fingers through his hair, shaking more strands loose. "And she's gone and said yes, daft bird." More mournfully, he adds, "What happened to loyalty? To _patriotism?_  Where are our American values now?"

"You're surely not lacking for dates," Newt points out, ignoring his melodrama. "Every available girl at Hogwarts is trying to figure out how to slip you a love potion right now."

Percival, who's in the middle of running his hand over his face, glares at Newt through his fingers.

"Don't remind me,” he says crossly. "Do you know how vigilant I have to be at every meal? Really puts a damper on your appetite, wondering if your next bite is going to turn you into a lovesick fool. And I can't accept chocolate from anyone now -" He cuts off when Newt rummages in his bag and pulls out a bar of Honeydukes chocolate. " _No_. For - me?"

Newt tries to keep his shrug casual, and he doesn't look up from his parchment as he slides the bar over the table. "I won it in Charms today. Take it, I won't eat it anyway."

"Bless you, Newt," Percival says fondly, and a moment later, Newt hears the crinkling of a wrapper. "I don't suppose you've a Mistletoe Ball date for me in your bag too?"

Newt tries to smile. "Not unless you'd like to take a battered copy of Advanced Transfiguration to the ball, no."

Percival sighs, then looks thoughtful.

"Transfiguration… what about Leta? Does she have a date?" The hope in his voice stings, but Newt pushes it down.

"Not that I know of, no," he answers. Leta'd been quite distracted lately; he wasn't sure if she even knew the ball was happening. "But… you shouldn't lead her on, if..."

There's an awkward pause as they both recall the moment in the greenhouse, and Newt feels his face coloring. Then Percival says quietly, "She's not interested in me. She only ever wanted to protect you."

Newt has to keep himself from looking up then. He doesn't know what the expression on Percival's face will be, but he knows it will not help him. Since the encounter with Bulstrode, their conversations have stayed shallow and fake, like this conversation about dates - the idea that Percival cares about going to this ball or who he takes is laughable. Neither of them has dared to mention the secret that suffocates the air between them until now, and Newt will not open himself to more pain by responding to this.

The silence drags on, and finally Percival asks, "Who are you going with?"

Newt carefully scratches another line about the proper brewing of Felix Felicis before he answers, "Not going."

"What? I thought everyone went." Percival's surprise only reminds Newt how new to Hogwarts he is. 

"I haven't been since first year. It's not really my scene." He scratches another line. "And besides, the Lilium potion finishes brewing that night.”

He looks up then, in time to see Percival's mouth fall slightly open. "Oh - Newt, I hadn't realized."

"It's quite alright. I can finish brewing it myself." He doesn't say that he has been brewing it by himself for the past month, anyway.

"But I wanted to be there for when -" Percival breaks off, mouth twisting in indecision.

"It'll be done two hours after first moonlight. You can come find me in the greenhouse if you want." Newt stands then and rolls up his parchment before sweeping his book into his bag. Suddenly he does not wish to be around Percival any longer. "I'm going to finish this in the common room. Goodbye."

"Newt -"

He does not wait to hear what Percival might have to say next. He does not think there are any words that can help the bitterness rising in his throat.

 

* * *

 

"Did you tell Percival Graves to ask me to the Mistletoe Ball?" For the second time that week, heavy books slam onto the desk in front of Newt's parchment. He only has time to read the title of the first one - _Indigenous Rodents of North America_ \- before Leta snaps her fingers in front of his eyes, demanding his attention. "Eyes up here. Did you, or did you not?"

"I didn't," Newt says truthfully. So Percival had done it then. He can't help himself from asking, "Are you going with him, then?"

Leta purses her lips. "He has the same emotional sensitivity as the hair potion he uses, Newt. Pretty as he is, I would rather be doing much more important things." When Newt grins a little, she narrows her eyes. "You're not much better off, you know. But anyway, the dolt asked me at dinner yesterday in front of _everyone_. Mother sent me an Owl this morning telling me I am not to turn down someone from the Twelve. She also sent me new dress robes. So yes, Newt, I am going." By the end of her answer, her tone is haughty and acidic, and Newt finds himself shrinking back in his seat.

"Oh. Well...have fun?" He offers, which only causes Leta to scoop up her considerable number of books and swoop off yet again. A moment later, she doubles back and forces a scone onto him.

Sometimes Newt wonders if he prefers men because women are impossible to understand.

 

* * *

 

The Mistletoe Ball is held the night after classes end, so students who aren't going to the ball usually go home before the castle descends into a flurry of preparations. This is Newt's first year staying for winter hols - he'd lied to his parents and told them he had to stay to tend the Bowtruckles. He feels a slight pang of guilt when Mother sends him a letter with a photograph of a newly born hippogriff (christened "Rutabaga", which even Newt can see the awfulness of) and signs it, "With much love, missing you lots". He knows she and Father only want the best for him, that they had been more understanding than he could have hoped for, but he still can't bring himself to see them again. He can't face the questioning looks, or the worried expressions they’ll wear when they think he’s not looking. 

No, it is better to stay at Hogwarts. At least the Bowtruckles do not worry about such things.

The long-term Potions laboratory is near the dungeons, and Newt very nearly runs over Seraphina on his way there. "Oh," he says, startled, then takes in her appearance. It's difficult not to, as her floor-length gown seems to be a cascade of tiny silver sparkles, gleaming against her skin. "How marvelous."

"Thank you," Seraphina says, looking a touch pleased. Then her face takes on an expression of worry, which Newt is not accustomed to seeing on her face. She's always rather impassive when he passes her in the hallways. "I've heard you have special robes for occasions here at Hogwarts."

"Dress robes? Yes - do you not?" Belatedly, Newt realizes that beautiful gowns are not the norm for wizarding balls, something Leta complains about without fail every time the Mistletoe Ball comes around.

Seraphina gives a rueful smile as she smooths down the front of her dress. "We try to blend in with No-Majs over in America. We have - concerns about detection."

Newt does not particularly understand how a gown like hers can possibly blend in, but then again, he has never had much contact with the Muggle world. He's trying to decide what to say next when Seraphina continues, more to herself than to Newt, "None of the other Ilvermorny students have dress robes either, so I shan't be the only one out of place."

"What do the men wear?" Newt asks, forgetting himself. She looks at him strangely.

"You'll see at the ball - unless you're not going?" Seraphina seems to see his clothes for the first time. Newt hasn't even bothered with robes, now that classes are over; he's wearing Muggle trousers (that are a little small for him, by now) and a soft mustard yellow jumper with the Hufflepuff crest embroidered on the breast. He's carrying his mokeskin pouch, a treasured gift from Theseus, which contained his cloak and all the empty potion bottles he could scrounge up.

"No, I'm afraid not," he admits, shrugging.

"Lucky you," she says, and then a sandy-haired, lanky boy in dress robes appears behind them. He must be her date, because he offers her his arm. "I'll be seeing you later, then."

Newt nods jerkily at her before continuing to the Potions laboratory. He wishes he had told her to have fun, or something else that would be kind or reassuring. She is very much like Percival in the way she puts up a facade to protect herself, it seemed. Only, her mask is cold and impenetrable, while Percival's is cheerful and social.

He ignores the throb that thinking about Percival creates in favor of passing over the rows of cauldrons. Upper-years and professors use the room for potions that take more than a day or two to brew, if they don't have enough cauldrons of their own, or a secure place to locate them. (Newt had learned in third year the perils of attempting to brew a potion in a boys' dormitory room. It'd taken a month for Frank Macmillan to forgive him for his destroyed books.)

Only three cauldrons are in use right now; he passes over the first two, one of which contains a pale gold liquid he thinks may be immature Felix Felicis, and finds his own. The potion inside is pitch black, and he can see his reflection in the surface, which is as still and smooth as a mirror despite the Heating Charm below the cauldron. Newt smiles to himself and sets out the bottles, hoping he'll have enough.

At exactly 11:08, two hours past the night’s first peek of the moon from behind a thick layer of clouds, the potion turns perfectly clear. Newt must work quickly; waving his wand, he spells the liquid into the waiting bottles, which cork themselves when done. By the time he is done, he has ten bottles of completed Lilium - perfectly brewed, as far as he can tell - and not a drop has been wasted. He hums; if the potion succeeds, both Professor Swoopstikes and Professor Pickett will be fascinated to hear the results.

Not a moment is to be wasted. Newt slips the bottles into his mokeskin pouch, then recalls his cloak, which he tucks under an arm as he heads out. Passing through the castle, there is one hallway in which he thinks he hears the echoes of ballroom music, and he wonders for a moment whether Percival and Leta are having fun. If they're dancing - if her hand is on his shoulder - or if he is cupping her waist - Newt swallows, forbids his brain from going any further, then hurries outside.

The winter night nips at his exposed skin, but the greenhouse is not far, and the warm, humid air inside feels like a sticky blanket settling on his shoulders. Without the spelled candles he usually uses to light the place, moonlight filters through the ceiling and slots through the leaves of the short, artificial forest.

Newt feels a pang of loss when he reaches the base of the largest tree, and he wishes despite himself that Percival was there to share this moment. He misses his low laugh, the heavy drape of his arm across Newt's shoulders. He doesn't even feel ashamed anymore, at how much he cares for the other boy, and his bitterness has faded, replaced by longing. He's seen and spent more time with Percival in the past few weeks than when he had been avoiding him after Hogsmeade, and yet he feels the loss of him more acutely than ever, now that he knows what he had been holding in the palm of his hands. A blossoming love. 

The room dims, then lights again as a cloud passes over the moon, and Newt is reminded where he is and what he's doing. He opens his mokeskin pouch and retrieves one of the bottles. The weight of the glass is comforting in his hand, and he's just about to uncork it when the greenhouse door opens.

"Newt!" Someone shouts, and Newt almost drops the potion when he turns to look, because the voice is unmistakable.

Like Seraphina, Percival isn't wearing dress robes, but Muggle formalwear - a sleek, pressed black tuxedo with crisp white lapels and shiny Oxfords. A red flower is pinned to his breast. His chest is heaving, his hair a mess, as if he's been running. Still, even like this - Percival is breathtaking. They stare at each other for a moment, eyes wide.

"Am I too late?" Percival breaks the silence. "For the potion?"

Newt shakes his head mutely. His lips seem to have gone numb. Percival strides up the aisle until he's very nearly touching Newt. He's decidedly not making eye contact now, staring up into the treetop instead.

"Should we wake the little rascals? It's for them, right?" Percival murmurs. Newt licks his lips to try and restore his speech before he answers,

"I asked Professor Pickett,  and he says we just have to pour the potion on the roots of a tree upon which Bowtruckles dwell to see the effects. This should be enough for a tree of its size, I think." He indicates the bottle in his hand. Percival raises an eyebrow.

"Let's be on with it then, shall we?" He asks, and the way he smiles warmly reminds Newt too much of a time before, when they had been able to be free with each other. He looks down quickly and uncorks the potion, letting the clear liquid splash over the roots.

For a moment, nothing happens. Then, it almost seems as if his vision is blurring. The roots fade from view until nothing is left but the dark holes where they had burrowed into the earth. The rest of the tree soon follows. For a moment, he thinks he's turned the tree invisible, its outline still faintly visible - then golden sparks begin traveling up from the roots to the branch tips, leaving thin, shimmering veins in their wake. 

"That's the Bowtruckles' magic," he says softly, reaching out as if he might be able to collect the delicate strands into his hand. His hand just rests on the invisible trunk, the webs of skin between his fingers faintly illuminated by the glow. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"

"Newt," Percival says, hoarse.

When Newt turns, Percival's already reaching for him. One hand cups his face gently while the other comes to rest on his neck, and there is no mistaking the question that's in Percival's desperate brown eyes, not when he's crowding in until his forehead rests on Newt's.

"Please," Percival whispers. His breath is warm across Newt's lips.

"Are you going to run away again?" Newt asks. It's a cruel question, but he has to know - has to protect himself again another false hope. Percival closes his eyes. His hand moves up to entwine itself in Newt's hair.

"I don't think I can run from you," he admits. It's Newt who leans forward to close the distance between their lips then.

Where their kisses before had been hurried and forceful, this one is gentler, sweeter. Percival holds Newt like he is something fragile, and he moves his lips against Newt's with slow, careful worship. He keeps briefly pulling away to look into his eyes, then surging back for more, until Newt's back is against the trunk, his hands fisted in Percival's once-pristine lapels.

The kiss grows more heated as Percival's tongue delves into Newt's mouth, which has parted in surprise, and he tentatively licks back - then, finding this new method of kissing to be much superior, Newt lets his hands travel up until they've buried themselves into Percival's hair, determined not to let him pull away until he's had his fill. Heat is pooling in the pit of his stomach, and he tentatively rocks against the muscular thigh that has pressed between his legs. One of them gasps at that, he's not sure who, and they break apart for air.

"Oh Newt," Percival murmurs, and there's such palpable desire and joy in his eyes that Newt has trouble recovering his breath. His thumb traces the outline of Newt's mouth, and he leans in to press another kiss there.

"Why?" Newt asks instead. He means to finish the sentence - _Why did you change your mind?_ \- but forgets, too caught up in being so close.

"I thought I could force myself to be normal, if I just - forgot what it was like to be with you. But I was dancing with Leta at the ball, and - " Percival breaks off to kiss him again. "Nothing about it was right. For a moment, all I could think was that I wanted to be holding you instead, and that - _I wouldn't give a damn if my father was watching._ "

Newt brings his hand to touch Percival's face, still somewhat in disbelief. The other boy turns and nuzzles into the touch, oblivious to the effect he's having on Newt's heart, which simultaneously feels like it's swelled to twice its size and has started doing cartwheels in his chest.

"I was such a fool. I hurt you, just because I wasn't strong enough to admit what I really wanted..." Percival looks mournful. "Forgive me, Newt?"

The answer to that, Newt thinks, is obvious, but he kisses Percival anyway, just because he can, and he's laughing when he pulls away, because this, _this_ glows more brightly than anything, and he thinks that if someone could look inside him now, they would see something beautiful and golden lighting up every vein in his body.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long update but i hope this pacifies those of you who were in agony over the last chapter! next update not to come for a while because of traveling, but please let me know what you think in the meantime - your comments give me so much motivation!
> 
> a couple of extra notes: 1) the Yule Ball is only a Triwizard Tournament tradition so I've replaced it with the made-up Mistletoe Ball 2) I know women's dress robes are just straight-up dresses in the HP movies, but let's say that in the 1910s, witches were more conservative and wore dress robes similar to the men's. 3) evidently JK Rowling says homophobia is just not a thing amongst wizards, but I consider her tweets to be a gray area in regards to being canon. We're going to ignore that for this fic.


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